MERIWEATHER never forgot the picture which they presented, father and daughter, so much alike, facing each other across the little table—Hildegarde's cheeks blazing, Carew's eyes hard. The young secretary knew what it meant when Carew's eyes were like that. In such a mood he would say bitter things, sarcastic things, cruel things sometimes, things he would regret.
Hildegarde, slim as a young birch in her white wool frock, stood up. "I'm sorry it has all ended like this."
"Ended!" The word seemed to ring through the room.
The three of them were standing now, and Carew was saying, "I am sorry you care more for this boy than for me."
"Daddy, it isn't that."
"But why should you want so much to have him here?"
"Because he was my friend and mother's."
"You've said that before. Yet your mother sent you to me, to share my life, to cut away from old associations."
"Mother would never have had me ungrateful."
"But don't I deserve something?"
